


The Hardest Decisions

by pennflinn



Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Major spoilers for the game, Panic Attacks, Post-Game(s), Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27727989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennflinn/pseuds/pennflinn
Summary: Peter spends his first Thanksgiving after the Devil’s Breath incident alone.Spoilers for Spider-Man PS4.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	The Hardest Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry if some of this is a little on the nose for 2020, but I wrote it because I needed it. Thank you to everyone who is staying home for the holiday this year in an effort to keep your community healthy. I see you, and I appreciate you.
> 
> Major spoilers for the end of Spider-Man PS4 below.

It was the yams — the yams were burning, and Peter was crying about it. If there was one thing he never thought he would do, it was cry over yams. But here he was.

The first thing he did was wrench open the window, even though it was freezing outside and he couldn’t afford to turn on his heat. It wouldn’t be enough to clear all of the smoke, but he’d taken the batteries out of his smoke detector already. The next thing he did was turn off the oven and pull out the smoking dish of yams. The _next_ thing he did was sit down on the floor in the tiny galley kitchen and cry.

The yams were blackened. Ruined. They were May’s recipe.

Actually, everything he’d attempted to make was May’s recipe. Her recipe book was one of the few things he’d taken from her place after the funeral. It was full of notecards, some curling yellow at the edges from age or spilled food. Her handwriting crossed each line neat and delicate, her letters curling, too. She didn’t alphabetize the recipes, but rather organized them by occasion. Peter had flipped through the Thanksgiving section the day before, poring over each page and making a hastily scrawled grocery list. His handwriting was not nearly as neat as May’s.

The kitchen was too small to sit in for long; Peter had to bunch up his legs too much, and he was sore anyway from a robbery gone wrong earlier that day. Seriously, who robbed a grocery store on Thanksgiving?

With a groan, Peter unfolded himself from the floor, dumped the yams in the trash. Headed to the tiny couch, where the rest of his meal was waiting.

MJ and Miles had both invited him to family Thanksgivings, of course, knowing that it was his first Thanksgiving alone. It was sweet of them, and earnest, he knew. He could only imagine how worried MJ must be. And why shouldn’t she be? He was sitting alone on his couch on Thanksgiving, with half-cooled attempts at green bean casserole, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, and stuffing spread out on the coffee table in front of him. None of it looked right. Or, at least, it didn’t look like it did when May used to make it. He’d tried his best, but none of it was quite how it was supposed to be.

The chill November air ruffled the pages of the recipe book, and Peter smelled the yams again, sitting as they were in the bottom of the trash. It seized him again like an electric current. He doubled over, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead as the sobs grew painful.

He was dialing MJ before he really knew what he was going to say.

_“Peter?”_ She picked up after the second ring, almost as though she’d been waiting for him. _“Everything okay?”_

“No,” Peter said miserably. He shivered against the cold. “Everything turned out wrong. I don’t know why I ever thought this was a good idea.”

The sounds of chatter quieted on the other end of the line as MJ presumably moved into a different room. There was laughter where she was, and the sounds of plates being stacked. _“Oh, Peter. I’m sorry. The invitation is still open, you know — you can come over. Or I could come to you. I can bring some turkey.”_

“No, no,” Peter said. He sat back against the couch and took in a long, strained breath. Breathing was harder sometimes, these days. It was the tightness that he knew well from bruised ribs, except sometimes now it clamped over his lungs without apparent injury. “No, you should be with your family. I’m — well, it’s not the end of the world. I have food.”

_“Things don’t have to be the end of the world for them to be important,”_ MJ said. _“I know things are hard this year. Losing people, losing… traditions... usually is. But I want you to know that you’re not alone. Even if I’m not physically with you right now, I’m right here, okay?”_

Peter nodded, a bad habit when he was on comms or on the phone. “I just didn’t think this…” He breathed out hard, his throat closing up too much for him to speak. He swallowed and tried again. “I still can’t believe what I did. I can’t believe I let her...”

_“Peter.”_ MJ’s voice took on a firm edge. _“Remember, this is not something you have to blame yourself for, and May would be the first to tell you that. You made a choice, a sacrifice, and that choice means something. It means that thousands of people can have their loved ones today and for years after. I know it sucks, and it hurts, and I’m so sorry that you’re hurting. I wish I could take that away from you. But think about those people. You have to know that you did the right thing.”_

Peter sniffed and looked over the array of food on his coffee table. The smoke was clearing, at least. “I just miss her so much.”

_“I do, too,”_ MJ said. _“But she would be so proud of you. Even if you did reinterpret some of her recipes.”_

That elicited a wet laugh from Peter. “I would call it a little more than reinterpreting. I don’t know how she managed to make all of this every year _and_ have it out of the oven at the exact same time.”

MJ chuckled. _“Well, not always. Remember the year she forgot about the rolls in the oven?”_

“And she tried to cut off all of the burnt pieces?” Peter said. “Oh, she was so mad. I thought she was going to swear off bread altogether. We doused that bread in so much butter to make it edible. To make her feel better.”

Their laughter continued a few more seconds, then trailed off. Outside, a siren wailed.

_“Hey, Pete?”_ MJ said. _“I know you said you wanted to do Thanksgiving alone this year, but maybe I could stop by tomorrow sometime for lunch? I don’t know, start a new tradition?”_

Peter wiped away the tears that had begun falling again sometime in the last minute. He wasn’t sure when they’d started. “You bring your leftovers, and I bring mine?”

_“Can’t wait for that legendary Parker cooking,”_ MJ teased. In the background, someone called her name. _“I can stay on the phone if you’d like. There’s a spare bedroom upstairs. We can talk.”_

“I think I’ll be alright. You should get back,” Peter said. “Thanks, MJ. I think I’m going to dish up some of this now. Please say hi to your family.”

_“I will,”_ MJ said. _“You’ll be okay, Peter. I know you, and you’ll get through this. Call me if you need anything else — like I said, I’m just a phone call away.”_

“I will. Bye.”

He hung up and set the phone on the couch beside him, then closed his eyes. Listened to the sounds of the city through his open window. Not just sirens, but people shouting for taxis, glasses and silverware clinking, pigeons fluttering past, a group of people raising a unified cheer for their preferred football team, the piercing laughter of one of the children of the family living in the apartment upstairs.

Peter still found himself crying — he found himself crying a lot these days — but he dished himself up a portion of each of May’s recipes all the same. May would forgive him the yams. He’d try them again next year.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and much love. If you have a moment, I always appreciate comments! Have a safe Thanksgiving, if you celebrate.
> 
> Till next time,
> 
> Penn


End file.
